In Search of Another Path
by multiplicities
Summary: There are some things that can't be given, only taken. There are some things that are not treasured, but destroyed. Unfortunately for Harry Potter, Voldemort has no intention of letting him go. Ever.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is not mine.

* * *

Harry Potter had been feeling hopeful about this year. His friends were around him, public opinion had once again swung towards his side, and he was going back to the place where he belonged – Hogwarts. Even the fact that Voldemort had returned was little more than an afterthought, as he allowed himself to simply bask in the feeling of being at the train station.

The facts that Draco was acting more suspicious than usual and his friends didn't believe him about his observations were little more than nuisances. Otherwise, he was still quite optimistic about a new year in school and looking decidedly forward to catching up with everyone on the Hogwarts Express.

He really should have known better.

_Crack!_

Suddenly, Hedwig's cage, perhaps due to too much jostling, swung open and Hedwig tumbled out, hooting in righteous fury.

"No, it's okay-" Harry snapped irritably as the Aurors by his side attempted to hurry him up. Ron, Hermione, and the rest had already gone ahead of him. Besides, the Aurors really only got in his way. Hadn't he confronted Voldemort last year and came out in better shape than the majority of everyone else in the Department of Mysteries? He could take care of himself.

"Here, I'll go after her," he shoved his bags into the grim-looking Aurors' hands, ignoring their affronted expressions and raced after Hedwig. Strange, it almost looked as though she had been spooked, the way she was flying increasingly farther away from him.

"Come on, Hedwig-" Harry gasped out, racing through the Muggle platforms after her. Maybe something was wrong? He dived around a guard, barely missed a stroller with a baby inside, and continued pursuing her. She really _was_ getting too far away.

He never saw the flash of red that hit him.


	2. Chapter 2

He was actually feeling quite bored. It was rather surprising.

The day that he had arrived, Harry had woken up in a pitch-dark room. From what he could make out from touch, the room he was in contained no windows and was approximately the size of Dudley's bedroom. His wand had been taken away from him, which was no surprise. Besides his clothing, he had nothing else with him.

The room also appeared to be completely empty, no bed or table or _anything_ within it. It was connected by a door to a bathroom with just a simple sink and toilet. The toilet and the sink were apparently magically run, with no actual pipes or drainage used to operate them. There were also the appropriate grooves for another door, but no handle, and he couldn't figure out how to open it.

Meals had appeared periodically – or at least Harry assumed that they came periodically. They would always appear in one corner of his room then disappear later. Harry had stepped into it the first time he noticed. Figuring that Voldemort probably wouldn't put any effort into drugging him when it would be much easier to torture him directly, he ate everything that arrived. The food so far had been plain but nourishing, as well as surprisingly good.

He had tried to keep track of the days at first, thinking morosely that Ron and Hermione were probably watching the first years getting sorted at the moment, then sleeping that first night, and then getting handed their schedules and hurrying off to class. Or maybe they wouldn't, he realized with a start, because they'd probably be worried about him.

That was a further thing. He assumed that Voldemort had been the one to kidnap him, or possibly one of Voldemort's followers had decided to do things on his own. On the whole, Harry found it unlikely that the majority of Voldemort's followers would be capable of doing so in such a way. Most of them were maniacal, arrogant murderers, after all. In fact, most of them would probably have already killed him or simply botched up the kidnapping altogether.

If it was Voldemort himself, then Harry was resigned to the fact that the Ministry would probably not be able to help him. Even with Rufus Scrimgeour in charge, he had never read or heard of the Ministry doing _anything_ constructive about the Death Eaters. In fact, the newspapers were just deadly dull, with snippets of murders and disasters thrown in there occasionally. He doubted that the Ministry _could_ do anything to trace him. His only real hope of rescue was Dumbledore.

After waiting for a long time for something to happen, Harry had given in to his anger and fear. He had started screaming and banging on the walls, hoping that someone would come and _answer_ him. Except nothing had happened whatsoever. His meals still appeared and there were no other signs of human contact. Even the silence was frightening because there was nothing Harry could hear except for the sounds he himself made.

He had given up on making noise to attract someone's attention quite early.

He had also tried not eating the food that appeared, but still nothing changed. In the end, Harry felt too hungry to refrain from eating anymore, so he stopped trying the starvation tactic fairly quickly around two days in.

Being unused to staying still for long periods of time, Harry tried jogging in place to keep fit or doing push-ups and sit-ups. After a while, those had stopped as well. There really wasn't much point to keeping physically fit when there was no Quidditch cup to win or household chores to perform for the Dursleys.

It could have been days or weeks after Harry had been kidnapped. He had no sense of time anymore, no impression of whether it was day or night, even whether it had been hours or days that he had spent sleeping.

Sometimes he'd see things out of the corner of his eye, even though it was impossible to see anything in the endless dark of the room. People, even the Dursleys would almost be there until he looked at it directly. At this point, Harry would welcome practically any stimulation, even if it was Voldemort to taunt and torture him or dementors trying to give him the Kiss. Anything, except for nothing.

When someone finally came for him, Harry was awake. It felt like a dream.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello, Harry."

Thin lips curled slightly. This was not the person that Harry wanted to see visit him and was, in fact, near the bottom of the list of people he wanted to see. At this point, however, practically anyone would do. As long as it wasn't a dementor, Harry could deal with it.

"What do you want, Voldemort?" Harry spat, trying to sound defiant but most likely giving an impression of fatigue instead. He still glared with as much vitriol as he could muster though. His prison had not broken him.

Voldemort smirked, somehow managing to look amused and irritated at the same time. It was not a good look on a face with no hair and a suggestion of scales, though it was at least an improvement over the sheer rage that Harry usually inspired in Voldemort.

"You're not going to cooperate, are you. Why don't we get our duel out of the way, and then we can talk?" Voldemort suggested smoothly, tossing Harry's phoenix wand to him and drawing his own.

Harry simply gaped, bewildered by Voldemort's civility as well as the lack of spectators – wouldn't he want his followers to watch him humiliate the Boy-Who-Lived? He fumbled for the wand, still eyeing Voldemort warily.

"Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?" he asked, actually curious about Voldemort's answer. It was true that the Dark Lord seemed to enjoy toying with his prey before killing them, but he had believed that the Voldemort from the Department of Mysteries saw him as enough of a threat to dispense with anything besides AvadaKedavra.

"Would you like me to?" Voldemort asked sardonically. "Now, bow."

They had been through this before, too, in the graveyard. As before, Harry kept his back straight, stiffening his spine and preparing for the Imperious Curse to hit.

"Very well," Voldemort breathed and – did _not_ hit him with Imperio. Instead, Harry blinked as his enemy turned around, bare feet sliding over stone, and moved precisely three steps away. He resisted the urge to hex him, though anyone else would probably have decided that this was a time when the rules of wizard's duels need not be so strictly adhered to. The only light came from the still-open door, and Harry tried to calculate how long it would take him to reach the door and whether or not there were other people outside. Unfortunately, Voldemort was much closer to the door. If this was one of his strongholds, then escaping one room probably wouldn't do Harry much good.

"Immobulus!" Voldemort began, and Harry dodged.

Their fight was surprisingly tame. There were a few Imperio's, none of which affected Harry for long, and absolutely no Avada Kedavra's on either side. The sporadic Crucio's appeared to be cast for appearance's sake only, and Voldemort never tortured Harry for more than the instant the spell hit, though Harry thought he could feel Voldemort wanting to hold Crucio as long as possible. All in all, the duel was more like dueling an exceptionally skilled partner in the D.A. than fighting a life-or-death battle with Voldemort. Then, Harry realized that it was not a life-or death battle. Voldemort was definitely holding back.

With a last Expelliarmus, Harry's wand flew to Voldemort's hand. Instead of gloating, Voldemort summoned a table and two chairs, waving a hand to indicate Harry's seat.

Harry took it, too tired and confused to think straight. So far, nothing that had happened to him had been very bad, so he was just waiting for Voldemort to stop pretending and try to kill him again.

Voldemort smiled back at him from across the table, red eyes glazed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Have you ever wondered, Harry Potter, how Dumbledore expects you to defeat me?" Voldemort questioned conversationally.

Harry stared back into that chillingly mocking face silently. Of course he had, how could he not? Besides, Dumbledore was one of the wisest wizards of this generation; if he said that love was the power the Dark Lord knew not, then there had to be more to it.

"Dumbledore has set you against me – what, three times?"

It was actually four, including Riddle's diary, but he didn't bother to correct Voldemort. He already knew enough, there was no point in giving him extra information.

"And each time, boy, he has sent you in alone, with only the help that you yourself could find. Has he ever even trained you, taught you how to fight? Or did he leave you to teach yourself the things you needed to stay alive?"

"He didn't send me to fight you, I chose to do so myself," Harry retorted angrily. "He's always made sure that I had what I needed to fight you. He _trusts_ me. Would you trust any of your followers to fight for you if you didn't force them to?"

Voldemort's face turned uglier than usual at those words, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was about to curse Harry into smithereens. Harry tensed, waiting. Surprisingly, he could see Voldemort visibly collecting himself instead, forcing his anger down. It was startling – the dark lord had never, in his experience, stopped himself from hurting someone when he was angry. Voldemort unclenched his teeth, seeming to force himself to keep speaking politely to Harry.

"Tell me something, Harry," he urged, almost paternally. "What did Dumbledore tell you about Quirrell's fate and the fate of the Philosopher's Stone at the end of your first year?"

"Well… he said that the stone was destroyed," Harry said slowly. "And he told me that you left Quirrell to die because you don't care what happens to your enemies or your followers…"

"Exactly," Voldemort said. "Except, Harry, do you realize what is necessary for the stone to be destroyed? Nicholas Flamel and his wife had to die to prevent me from using it again."

"Dumbledore said that it was like going to sleep for them, that death is their next adventure-"

"But they still died," Voldemort whispered gently. "Don't you see, Harry? Dumbledore's precious Light side is just as bad as the Dark. He destroyed the stone, which means he might just as well have murdered the Flamels himself. At least I have never lied about murdering someone."

"You're wrong! You're-"

"Not to mention Quirrell."

Harry froze; images of the former defense against the dark arts professor – how ironic, that most of those professors had turned out dark, anyway – made their way to the fore of his mind. Images of Quirrell, screaming and clawing brilliant red streaks through his own skin at Harry's touch. Images of Quirrell, tearing his own face apart when _Harry_, Dumbledore's Golden Boy, merely brushed him. It didn't matter, he told himself; Quirrell had been evil anyway. And yet… he didn't think those images would ever disappear from his mind.

"Quirrell is dead, thanks to you. Now, why do you think the most _brilliant_ wizard of our age decided to let a child kill him instead of doing it himself?"

Voldemort leaned closer, until Harry could see the glare off his glasses reflected in those crimson eyes.

"Because he doesn't want to taint his own hands," Voldemort answered his own question. "He wants his soul to remain untarnished, even when he's perfectly willing to turn an eleven-year-old child into his personal little killer. And believe me, Harry; murder does taint your soul."

Harry swallowed. Cleared his throat. "T-the chocolate frog card said that he defeated Grindelwald…"

"Defeated, not killed," Voldemort dismissed casually. "I believe Grindelwald is still locked up somewhere. He's most likely chained up in some remote prison with no companionship, no comforts, just the bare human necessities to keep him alive until he dies. Wizards, after all, can live for a very long time."

Harry tried to imagine it, being stuck in a prison completely alone. He couldn't quite picture it, but it might be something like being stuck inside the cupboard for weeks without being allowed out. Only in Grindelwald's case, he wouldn't have any hope of being allowed out. Voldemort was watching him intently, like some patient predator.

"He's made a lot of mistakes, he's told me that," Harry spoke out defiantly, needing to defend Dumbledore. "But he's trying to do the best he can, for everyone who's afraid of _you_. If Grindelwald was anything like you, then he deserved whatever he got."

"Oh, really? Dumbledore wants the best for everyone, hmm? Then let's talk about Sirius Black."

"Don't even say his name, you monster!" Harry roared, anger and sadness and guilt resurfacing. The events of last year were still very much in his thoughts. He shoved the chair back, standing and needing to _break_ something. "You're not even good enough to talk about him, you-"

Thin-lipped, Voldemort flicked his wand and Harry found himself silenced and magically bound to his chair. He fumed quietly, struggling even though he knew he couldn't release himself.

"And we were having such a pleasant conversation, too," Voldemort remarked, looking melodramatically disappointed. "I realize that you are still upset over his death, but I expect more than childish temper tantrums from you. Shall I leave for a few days until you've calmed down?"

Harry's eyes widened as he shook his head as frantically as he could. He did not want to stay in the dark room any longer, if at all possible. Even if it meant being polite to his most despised enemy.

Voldemort studied him for a while then, looking satisfied, allowed him to speak and move freely again.

"When I was temporarily defeated," Voldemort began, "Dumbledore still had Snape in his employ. Snape was a member of my most trusted Death Eaters, how could he not have known that Wormtail was my follower and not Black? No doubt he told Dumbledore his knowledge of the inner members of my circle."

Harry opened his mouth, ready to protest. Voldemort forestalled him with a raised hand.

"Snape, believing as he did in my death, would have tried to get himself into Dumbledore's good grace. He would have given Dumbledore any information he asked for in exchange for his freedom, don't you think? Which begs the question, why did Dumbledore allow Black to rot in jail for thirteen years?"

"Because he thought Pettigrew was dead, that's why! Dumbledore had no proof, because your follower was a rat who put all the blame on Sirius!" Harry spat.

"You seem to have a particular animosity towards Wormtail," Voldemort observed calmly. "In that case, would you like to see him?"

Harry's head snapped up to look at Voldemort, who only smiled cryptically before exiting the room and disapparating with a crack. Before Harry could even think about running, Voldemort apparated back outside of his room with Wormtail in tow.

"Master!" Wormtail squeaked. "W-what's the meaning of this?" He swiveled around and caught sight of Harry. "What is the boy doing here, m-my l-lord?"

Voldemort dragged him into the room and stared at Harry, not even regarding the squirming Animagus at his side with a glance.

"Do you hate this man, Harry?"

Harry nodded, remembering what Wormtail had done to so many people and how he had betrayed everyone who had trusted him. Wormtail squeaked again then fell silent, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the boy in front of him.

The dark lord smiled.

"Then…would you like me to kill him for you?"

Harry stopped moving, not even blinking. Did he want Wormtail dead? It was difficult to say. Wormtail had been his father's friend – his father surely would have wanted mercy to be granted to the rat, regardless of his betrayal. On the other hand, if Wormtail had never existed…

If Wormtail had never existed, then Harry would probably have a family. A home. A happy childhood. He could have been so happy…

He couldn't move, not even to nod or shake his head. Harry suddenly became aware of Wormtail's harsh, frightened breathing and Voldemort's gaze upon him.

Then, Voldemort moved.

Even before he spoke the words, Harry already knew what Voldemort was going to do. He wanted desperately to stop him from killing even a coward, a traitor, like Wormtail but he couldn't move at all. Right before Harry's eyes, the movements of the two people seemed almost as though they were in slow motion but Harry _couldn't do anything_.

"Avada Kedavra."

Green. And Wormtail would never hurt anyone again.


	5. Chapter 5

The thing that was interesting about _Blood Rituals and How to Use Them without Dying_, Harry thought, was the tone. The subject matter was exactly what might be expected from the title: all about blood rituals. Honestly, Harry had never known that there were rituals which could be used to exchange all the blood from one person's body to another, which would lead to both those people considered members of the family whose blood they possessed. Still, given the topic, readers would have expected the book to be grim. Instead, the author's description was more gleefully cheerful than should have been appropriate.

There was a stack of other books on the table that contained similar subject matters. They were also fairly easy to understand, as though the books had been written for pureblooded children of dark families rather than mature wizards. Voldemort had left them for Harry, suggesting that reading those books would assuage his boredom. He'd even left a conjured ball of light in the room, capable of brightening or dimming at Harry's command.

Voldemort…

Harry tried to think of the snake-like wizard as little as possible. So far, Voldemort had acted nothing like how he expected. Voldemort had been acting kind, like some twisted version of a father in place of James Potter.

Still, Wormtail had not deserved to die. Had he? Harry couldn't deny that he had dreamt of making Wormtail suffer for his crimes more than once, but it had never been more than a fantasy of revenge. When faced with the reality of Wormtail's death and by Voldemort, no less, he realized that he didn't really want Wormtail dead. If he had asked Voldemort to stop, then would Wormtail be alive? On the whole, Harry thought not. Voldemort had been trying to prove something to him.

What really frightened Harry, though, was the question – offer, really – that Voldemort had posed to Harry before sweeping out of the room dramatically.

What had he said? Oh, yes… he had said, "You blame Bellatrix for the death of that godfather of yours, no? If you dislike her that much, I am willing to dispense of her for good."

"_I am willing to dispense of her for good…"_ Was it that easy for Voldemort to kill his followers? Of course, Harry had to agree that Wormtail was little good to anyone and would probably be just as willing to betray Voldemort as he did Harry's father. Bellatrix, though, had to be Voldemort's most devoted follower even if she was completely gaga from her stay in Azkaban.

In any case, Harry tried not to think about anything concerning Voldemort too much. He had already devoured five of the books that had been left. He had found that his focus and concentration had been considerably improved. Strangely enough, he noticed that there were times when he went through a book without pausing for a break or even noticing when a meal appeared in his room.

It was after finishing the book on blood rituals that Harry heard something muffled from outside his door. He couldn't recall ever hearing anything outside of the room before.

Harry knelt down, pressing his ear against the door. The rim of his glasses dug uncomfortably into his skin, and he wished that he had a set of Extendable Ears at the moment. He could just faintly make out a voice, but it was too indistinct to hear anything more than snatched phrases.

He couldn't hear anyone else talking, just one person muttering to himself. Harry pressed his ear harder to the door, making out something that sounded like "stupid boy… Dumbledore's orders… spy…" However, Harry could always recognize the voice of his one-time and most despised potions professor.


	6. Chapter 6

Well, it's not as though Harry had anything to lose, right?

Whether Snape was really loyal to Dumbledore or Voldemort, it didn't particularly matter. He couldn't possibly make things worse, but if Dumbledore was right in trusting him, then Harry might finally get a chance to escape.

He pounded on the door with his bare hands at first, then thought better of it and grabbed _101 Curses to Make Your Enemy Look Stupid_ instead. Snape's words had paused, and from the sounds of it, he was coming closer.

"Snape! Snape!" Harry yelled, his voice cracking slightly from disuse.

"Potter?" the familiar superior voice questioned.

"Can you get me out of here?" he questioned directly.

There was a pause. Then Snape asked, his voice distrusting, "What were the questions I asked you during your first potions lesson? The ones you failed to know?"

"You asked me… where to find a bezoar, and another name for monkshood, and, er… something about the draught of living death?" Harry answered hesitantly, unsure even if those were some of the most unpleasant memories from his first year. Why would Snape ask him that? Unless he thought that it was a trap.

"What a pathetic memory. No wonder you do so poorly on your History of Magic exams," Snape sneered. Harry opened his mouth to retort – everyone besides Hermione did badly in History of Magic – but Snape spoke before he could say anything.

"Exactly why has the Dark Lord brought you here, Potter? Or has he succeeded in converting you to his cause?"

Harry flared up, all the more angry because he had been so absorbed in the books Voldemort brought him. "Of course not! He hasn't done anything to me yet, just talked and fought me once! Look, if you can't help me then why don't you get Dumbledore to help?"

"Watch your tongue, boy. It is very possible that the Dark Lord has set up a trap for anyone who attempts to use magic on this place. Describe your prison for me."

"It's sort of… black, only like glass – the walls, I mean… there's a ball of light above, but I can't touch it or anything… there's also a table and two chairs. It's connected to a bathroom, but there aren't any pipes," he said, for some reason choosing not to mention the books. It wasn't as though they really mattered, after all.

Snape snorted contemptuously. "Of course not, Potter. Magic requires no use of Muggle inventions, even if Dumbledore feels otherwise. Now, be quiet."

Harry shut up and listened to Snape, who was doing _something_ out there. He could hear the potions professor murmuring to himself and occasionally brushing the door he was leaning against. Even so, he had no idea what Snape was doing. He didn't appear to be casting any spells.

"Interesting," Snape finally said, stopping his investigation. There was a different note in his voice. "I don't suppose you have your wand in there with you, Potter?"

"No, Voldemort took it away after…" Harry stopped, visions of his father's friend falling coming back into his head. No. It wasn't his fault, and Pettigrew, out of everyone, couldn't complain about being betrayed by someone he had trusted. "Voldemort took it away after he killed Wormtail."

"That would explain why I haven't seen the skulking rat peeking around doors lately," Snape replied dismissively. "The wards on your prison are not meant to keep you in, Potter, except for the door, which is magically locked. They are meant to keep anyone besides He Who Must Not Be Named out. One can neither Apparate in nor Portkey inside, but someone from inside there could do both. Do you have any idea why that is?"

Harry swallowed, wishing that he had asked the Weasleys more about Apparition. So all it took was for him to Disapparate, and he'd be home? "No, I don't. Sir," he said steadily. He really didn't understand any of Voldemort's actions.

"Very well. I will go to Dumbledore and inform him of the situation. I make no promises, Potter, for rescuing you may very well prove impossible. However, I would suggest that you attempt no foolishly Gryffindor attempts at escape."

Harry stayed silent, but resolved that if he saw a chance for freedom, then he would take it.

Snape snorted softly and sounded as though he was about to sweep off again, but then he returned. "Are there any messages you wish to pass on to Dumbledore or those _friends_ of yours?" he questioned icily.

Well, this was astonishing. Harry had never imagined he'd see Snape playing messenger boy for him. He couldn't think of telling Dumbledore anything that his headmaster probably already knew, but… "Could you just tell Ron and Hermione that it's okay? Tell them everything's going to be all right."

He heard Snape scoff, likely at the pointless optimism of the message, but somehow, it made Harry feel better to voice his hopes out loud. This time, Snape definitely left.

Harry turned back to reading about curses, dreaming about a coming day when he'd be able to practice every single one of them on Malfoy.

After a meal and what was probably several hours of reading, the door opened. Harry took one look into Voldemort's furious red eyes and he knew that Voldemort _knew_.

A simple wand wave and Harry was pain. He couldn't conceive of himself as separate body parts anymore, just one large mass of agony. So… this is what it means to really mean it, because this pain was so overwhelming that Harry couldn't even move or scream.

He could only feel, and the only thing he could feel was pain. During those eternal seconds, he knew that he would have done anything, promised anything, to stop feeling it. Anything at all.

The moment Voldemort removed his Crucio, panting just as hard as Harry was, the boy finally fell into blessed unconsciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

His mother had told him stories only sporadically.

By the time he had turned five, Severus Snape had learned to both fear and hope for the days when his mother was kind.

She would tell him stories, brush his hair, act so affectionate and gentle that it made Severus ache – except none of it was real. Those were the good days, those days when his mother had gotten some gold and was preparing to use it.

The next day would always be a bad day, because his mother would go out and buy potions with her new gold. Potions that made her furious and clumsy, striking at him whenever Severus did anything and cursing at his very existence.

She'd tell him stories then, too, about what she might have had if he had never existed.

Severus didn't understand why his mother took the potions that made her so angry. He didn't understand why she would wreck the furniture that she cleaned so obsessively when she was in one of her moods, or why her wand stung him.

Sometimes he would perform little tasks. Severus would think if he only ate vegetables for a week… if he took a bath the moment he was told to… if he stopped fiddling around with his mother's wand…

If he was always a dutiful son, then maybe his mother wouldn't hurt him and she could stay nice forever.

He really liked the stories his mother told when she was happy. He wished he could fall asleep while listening to one of them and never wake up.

When Dumbledore came in with one hand blackened by a curse and the other holding the object that had done it with absolute tenderness, Snape had not recognized one part of the Deathly Hallows. The Resurrection Stone was only a tale for children, nothing more.

Snape was not a child anymore.

Yet, he had remembered the way Dumbledore had held it, as delicately as if it were a priceless heirloom – and Dumbledore had never valued mere objects as other men did, unless he connected them with people…

If Voldemort was truly interested in the Elder Wand, then it was possible that the fairy tale his mother had crooned into his ears was true as well.

It wasn't difficult to get into Dumbledore's office to test his theory. Dumbledore had always been too trusting; it was one of his major faults. All the professors knew whatever Dumbledore's current candy-based password was, and Snape personally knew the nights when Dumbledore would be gone.

He had gotten in there then, and seen what _had_ to be the Resurrection Stone lying innocently on the Headmaster's desk.

He hadn't taken it.

Snape thought of Lily often, only he refused to really remember her. It wasn't until he stood before the Resurrection Stone – must be the Resurrection Stone – with hand outstretched that he realized that he couldn't remember what her face looked like anymore, or the particular way that she used to laugh.

It hurt too much to really think about Lily, so Snape tried to not think at all. When Lily came to his mind, he associated her with the emotions that he had never let go of, when he'd found out she had died with James and that their child had never died at all. It was only now that he realized he could barely remember any of those memories of her. He found that he was too afraid of what he'd see to use the Resurrection Stone.

So Snape started searching for photographs of her, for memories, and anything that she had touched. He looked for the classmates that he could remember being close to her, though so many of them were dead.

But none of them were her. How could any of those _things_ be Lily!

If he could just get one more photograph, perhaps steal one from Potter when he came back… if he could find just another person willing to talk about her… if he just could look into poisonous green eyes just one more time…

Then he might be able to use the Resurrection Stone and get closer to Lily.

Snape thought if he could just look at the eyes of Lily's son, then it might be enough for him. In September, Harry Potter would return to Hogwarts.

Then the boy had been kidnapped and Snape searched within Voldemort's territory almost recklessly. For Lily's eyes.

Voldemort had hunted down and killed Snape personally, but not before Snape managed to send just one message to Dumbledore. There was only one thing the potions master regretted when the green light came for him just as it had for Lily.

After Dumbledore had come to him, Snape had told him that he would die soon from the infection and accepted Dumbledore's offer to kill him instead of letting Draco do it. With all his soul, Snape wished he had killed Dumbledore before Snape himself died.

He had believed in Dumbledore, but Dumbledore had betrayed him down again and again. Dumbledore had let Lily die and then allowed her son to be raised solely for the purpose of killing him.

Dumbledore had made Snape believe, that first day at Hogwarts, that even he could be happy. Dumbledore with his ideas of change, as though anything changed when growing from child into man.

More than anything, Snape wished that he could be the one to kill him.


	8. Chapter 8

It appeared as though Voldemort was giving him the silent treatment again.

Harry couldn't remember how long he had gone without seeing his jailer. Given how infuriated Voldemort had appeared the last time he had seen him, it had made him relieved at first to be left alone.

However, he couldn't stay locked up and without anything to occupy him forever. The books had stopped appearing and even the food seemed a little plainer – however, it was still enough to allow Harry to survive. He was rather glad that Voldemort hadn't decided to cut off all nourishment entirely in a fit of rage. He was getting bored again.

He'd expected ill treatment, actually. If Voldemort knew that Harry had talked to Snape and been angry about it, then it meant that Voldemort wasn't sure if Snape had been on his side.

For a while, Harry had contemplated the ramifications of this – what did it mean if Snape had been acting outside of Voldemort's orders? It was also possible that Snape had talked to him because Voldemort had ordered it, only this would mean that Voldemort's confrontation with Harry had been feigned as well.

It hurt his head to analyze the situation so much, so Harry had decided to give up thinking about the whole thing. Unfortunately, he didn't have anything to distract him this time.

He found himself instead wondering about Snape.

Whether Snape had gotten away, whether Snape had told Dumbledore where he was, whether or not Snape had been on his side… it was odd, how long one person could know another and still know nothing at all about him.

It had been almost six years since Harry first 'met' Snape. He knew that the professor was sardonic, biased against Gryffindors, and hated Harry because of James, and yet… he still had no idea what made the wizard tick.

Snape had sounded sincere. That last question, especially, made Harry believe in Snape's good intentions. On the other hand, he didn't have any other choice. So he trusted the professor he hated the most.

And he waited.

And waited.

And kept on waiting still.

He wanted to run away from this place, from this room, as quickly as possible. It wasn't possible.

And when Voldemort arrived for Harry again, he thought that he might finally be killed. He didn't know whether or not he could fight.

"I am still angry at you."

Voldemort looked at him. Harry stared back, eyes drooping and too tired to get up. It wasn't fair that Voldemort could be in his best condition and Harry in his worst.

"There is no need to wait for rescue. Severus Snape is dead."

Harry closed his eyes, tilted his head back. He wasn't sure how to feel. This, however, more or less proved that Snape had been working for Voldemort. There was no point in Voldemort informing him of Snape's death unless he really had killed him, right?

Maybe he should cry.

Then Voldemort explained about a Vanishing Cabinet, which Harry vaguely recalled from second year or so, and Draco Malfoy. This was horrible news. Harry didn't understand much of it except this: there was a way for the Death Eaters to get into Hogwarts.

He tensed, eyes flickering from one point to another. He _had_ to make sure Dumbledore knew.

"For now, I plan to send only the most devoted of my followers to infiltrate Hogwarts."

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Harry breathed. He hated her for killing Sirius and he was afraid. Bellatrix could do so much worse than simply kill someone, and that was already bad enough.

"I originally offered to kill her, if you wished it, but I have decided to change my conditions. You have two choices: kill Bellatrix with your own wand or – she will enter Hogwarts."


	9. Chapter 9

He couldn't do it.

No matter what Voldemort's terms were, Harry couldn't imagine killing someone – anyone - else. Bellatrix might be a monster and responsible for his godfather's death, but even so, he didn't want to kill her.

Perhaps more accurately, he didn't want to stain his hands with blood. If only someone else could kill her instead.

If Harry killed Bellatrix, then he would never be able to go back to the way he was.

So when the Dark Lord came again for his answer, he told him no. Voldemort smiled, terrible white lips gaping open like a bloodless wound. He thought that Voldemort had been happy.

He played the waiting game again. The books were back, but Harry had no interest in reading them now. He waited, tense and dozens of horrifying images playing through his head, for news. It seemed like hours before Voldemort came again.

He brought a Pensieve with him. The thing was already shining with someone's memory, and Harry could make out the outlines of the door to the Room of Requirements.

He dove in, eyes wide open.

It felt like a dream, because Harry couldn't quite take it in, couldn't completely accept that this was what had happened.

Bellatrix was a powerful witch, too strong to be stopped by the likes of a few peaceful harmless children, whether or not they could do magic. He registered that she was alone and wondered if Voldemort had decided to send her on a suicide mission.

But of course, if Bellatrix had died then Voldemort wouldn't have her memory.

It looked like Bellatrix had some destination in mind. She was going up the stairs, past rows of portraits that she immobilized swiftly, cursing all students and staff in her way.

She came to the portrait of the Fat Lady and blasted it open. Harry stared, heart in his throat. He knew what was coming now.

Ron and Hermione were sitting in the Gryffindor common room. Harry felt warmer at the familiar, comforting sight even as he knew what was about to happen. They were really helpless against Bellatrix.

When she pronounced the words "Avada Kedavra," Harry closed his eyes. Maybe it would be better to never see again?

"Hello, Longbottom. Would the baby like to see his parents?" she taunted and his eyes snapped open.

"If Harry was here-" Neville began.

Harry wasn't there, even as Neville screamed and writhed and begged under the Cruciatus. He couldn't save anyone.

Before it was too late for Neville, Dumbledore swept into the room and Bellatrix immediately swung around to face him, grinning madly. It was too late for Ron and Hermione.

Before she portkeyed out, Harry gazed at Dumbledore's face. Maybe if he memorized that look, those eyes, then his dreams wouldn't be filled with the deaths of his best friends.

Harry came out of the Pensieve, gasping for breath. He had never felt this way before. He looked up into Voldemort's cold red eyes and moved in to hit him.

He wanted to hurt this man, this monster, who had been responsible for so many deaths, so much pain. He wanted to kill him, but hitting Voldemort was like hitting smoke. There wasn't any resistance, even as Harry scratched and punched and kicked.

Maybe he really was less than a true man.

Harry paused, unable to continue. What was the point anymore? And his best friends were dead, just because he had been too cowardly to let his hands get bloody.

Voldemort stepped back, created a Patronus – a smoky horse, Harry noted. It galloped off.

When Harry saw Bellatrix's face – first adoring as she gazed at her lord, then startled and malicious as she glanced at Harry – he had no more hesitation.

"Avada Kedavra." Harry Potter could never go back home – there was no home left.


	10. Chapter 10

Bellatrix would do anything for Him. Die for Him, kill for Him, and if she ended up in a hell in which she no longer believed, then she'd laugh even as she was tortured. For Him.

He was her god.

He'd shown her the truth behind the lies that those tainted muggle-loving wizards sprouted and proved to her what she had always known instinctively, that she was better than any of that trash. Who needed Mudbloods and muggles? She'd kill them all and make the world anew.

For Him.

Her Lord was a genius, better than that half-senile Dumbledore or the Ministry rats, scurrying around in fear of the cats. She'd show them what it meant to be hunted!

This was her reward from her beloved Dark Lord. A chance to break Dumbledore and kill as many of his filthy followers as possible.

So she did. She went into the cabinet and came out into Hogwarts, just as her Lord had told her she would. So much for the claims that Hogwarts was a sanctuary from Him! Her Lord could go anywhere, do anything. She believed in Him utterly.

He had told her to leave the Slytherins, distinguished by the green they wore, alone and unharmed. She could see a few prospective servants for her Lord among them, though none would ever be as close or as loyal as _she_ was.

She would prove herself over a thousand times and already had. Those spoilt children didn't understand what they were being offered: the chance to serve her Master and some were even hesitating! If she could only be given an hour in a room with some of them…

But this was not the time, her Master had told her. So she'd wait and kill the Gryffindors first, especially those ickle friends of baby Potter…

Bellatrix giggled, the sound sending the nearest figures scurrying out of their portraits.

It would be so fun!

She stood, in this sacred place of Hogwarts, the Gryffindor common room – a place that she, as a Slytherin and later a Death Eater should never have entered. The blood traitor and filthy Mudblood friends of Potter were dead – she couldn't wait until her Lord's most irritating enemy found out! The children were cowering, and Bellatrix longed to show them real fright, real fear…

Oh. Oh, my. Neville Longbottom, was it? She knew just the perfect spell for him. Poor thing, wouldn't it be better to be batty like his parents than to just be a shame to his pureblood roots? What a disgustingly pathetic child – such a waste of time and resources.

He screamed, and the sound was purest melody to Bellatrix's ears.

Now Dumbledore was coming in, and Bellatrix reveled in his look of shock and anger – but she couldn't stay, her Lord had ordered her to come the moment he appeared.

She laughed, knowing that Dumbledore's most beloved thing was falling in pieces all around him. Her Master was sure that once parents knew that Hogwarts was not safe then the children would be taken back to their parents. Hogwarts was ruined, its once pristine reputation destroyed and marked by so many deaths that it would never, never be the school it had been. At least, not until her Master rebuilt it into the school he envisioned and then it would be _better_.

The place that Dumbledore had devoted so much of his life and dreams to was shattered.

Just as her Lord had wanted.

She came back to her Master's side, exultant and triumphant. So happy, so pleased to have been of use to him…

What? The Potter brat? What was he doing here? Unless… perhaps her Master would give her the pleasure of killing him?

Now he was giving Potter his wand… perhaps a duel to show the ickle baby who was truly strong? Only, her Master was letting the boy aim it at _her_… and he looked so pleased… why?

Avada Kedavra? But Potter couldn't possibly use it – he was too stupid and naïve to _mean_ it! But the spell glowed green, coming straight for her?

But He would stop it, wouldn't he? She was his most loyal, his strongest servant… he wouldn't let her die so easily… would he?

_My Lord?_

_My Lord-_


	11. Chapter 11

Harry looked at the wall in front of him. Staring straight ahead because he couldn't really see the wall, after all.

He could see Bellatrix, though. Every single one of her features was etched into his mind.

The horrible thing was he couldn't bring himself to regret it. The only thing he regretted was not killing her sooner, before she could kill the people precious to him.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore because Harry was becoming a monster.

His wand was still with him, though Harry couldn't manage the will to use it. It wouldn't do any good, anyway. Even if he did manage to blast out of this prison, he'd still get captured.

It was odd, how hopeless all his thoughts had become.

Before, Harry had always thought about Ron and Hermione at school, studying and playing and going to classes, whenever he got melancholy. Now, he could only wonder what their funerals would look like.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was the impetuous one, the one who always ran straight into danger. If anything, Harry had thought that his friends would be the ones to bury him.

Some hero.

At least Bellatrix wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else. Harry couldn't help but feel a stab of savage triumph at the memory of her face, first twisted with disbelief and then turned so trustingly towards her lord, only to be betrayed. He only wished that she had had longer to realize her master had sent her in to die.

Harry himself was still reeling from it. After he'd killed Bellatrix, Voldemort had tugged him onto the floor to sit. His own vision had been wavering.

He couldn't remember what had happened after that.

"Harry Potter."

Voldemort was there, only Harry wasn't afraid at all. He had already taken so much from him, what more could he do? Kill him?

"You did very well. Almost like one of my better Death Eaters," Voldemort crooned, a look of sick satisfaction on his terribly pale face.

"I'm nothing like-" Harry retorted hotly then stopped. In a way, he was, wasn't he? After all, he had killed as well.

"Aren't you?" Voldemort whispered sadistically. He laughed even as Harry blinked. "Did you know that we are distant cousins, Harry Potter?"

"Would it stop you from killing me?"

"Perhaps… it depends on your answer to my question. Will you serve me now?"

Harry stayed silent, unwilling to commit himself either way. He didn't particularly fancy being Crucio'd until he went insane but neither would he ever join Voldemort's cause. He just wanted to be left alone, because there was no way that he could go back home.

"Well? I have destroyed everything that you care for, Harry Potter." _Except for Dumbledore_. "What do you have left to fight for, except your own life?"

He couldn't think of anything. Of course his parents had died for him, but he still wanted to live. Despite everything, Harry still valued his own survival. Even if he had lost everything else, he valued his life. Of course Voldemort understood that. This was the monster that wanted his life for eternity, after all.

"You could be my son," Voldemort said, giving Harry a look of twisted possessiveness and… _something_ else. Hatred?

Harry said nothing at all.


	12. Chapter 12

"No. Freaking. Way."

In retrospect, Harry thought that his eventual - that is, very, very belated - reply could have been a bit more diplomatic. Not that he would have agreed, but when his main goal was to survive and get back to a semblance of normality, it went against his objectives to join Voldemort.

Assuming that the offer was genuine, of course.

He'd seen how Voldemort treated his most trusted. It would definitely be in Voldemort's best interest to get rid of Harry permanently rather than let an adolescent boy who'd spent most of his magical life trying to kill him wander around in Death Eater robes.

Voldemort might trust Harry's sense of honor to keep him from breaking a promise. He wasn't sure if he would refrain from breaking it, even if he joined Voldemort.

Besides, what was all that about being like a son? Considering what Voldemort had done to his own father and what his follower, Barty Crouch Jr., had done to _his_ father, it might not be the best of recommendations. You-Know-Who had first killed his father and then desecrated his resting place, after all. Sort of like adding insult to injury. In fact, if this was what Voldemort thought was normal in father-son relationships, Harry could understand why the megalomaniac thought of him as a son.

He'd suffered a round of Cruciatus. If nothing else, at least the torture curse left no permanent damage. Usually. Some might argue that he was already mad, anyway. And it did wonders for flexibility.

Harry wondered if he had developed a case of gallows humor. How appropriate.

"Where are you, boy?"

…Well, this was unexpected. It looked as though Snape had fulfilled his mission before he died, after all. Or maybe not. This was Professor Moody's voice, and there was no way for Harry to tell if this was an imposter again.

"Harry? Can you hear us?" Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry had always liked him. That is, if it wasn't a trick.

A bubble of laughter spurted out from behind Harry's lips. Was this another hope that would come to nothing?

"Potter? Answer me, if you're there!"

"Professor Moody?"

"Yeah. Now let's get you out of there."

"Really? Wait, you can't – Snape said that there's a ward on the room, or something…"

"Yes, he told us that in his letter. Don't worry, we've got a plan to deal with it."

"…Snape's dead, isn't he?" he asked dully.

"…You'll be fine, Harry."

"Potter, get ready. In a moment, we'll destroy this door. Be prepared." _CONSTANT VIGILANCE_, Harry thought wryly. He gathered the meager remains of his possessions – namely, his wand – and stood right in front of the door.

Then, a sudden urge made him turn and reach out for one of the books that were scattered around. He didn't know why, but he shoved one of those dark, nasty books into his robes along with his wand. He was prepared. "Yes, sir." He thought he heard Moody snort.

They were right outside the door by this time, and Harry thought for the first time since he'd heard Snape's voice that he could feel hope. He didn't feel brave or anything, but maybe, just maybe, he had a chance. To get out.

Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice rang out in an incantation, though Harry didn't recognize it.

However, he could hear the effect; a big billow of air seemed to rush past just seconds before the fire came.

It didn't look like the usual fire. Fire should have been warm, protective, comforting – this wasn't any of those things. This fire, Harry could feel, was made only to destroy.

He looked at the shapes it formed, of fantastic magical beasts that couldn't possibly really be there. It was strangely entrancing and it reached out for him. He raised one hand towards the burnt remains of what had been the door, barely registering the two silhouettes behind the fire.

"What are you doing, idiot boy?" Moody roared, one hand grabbing his extended arm. "Focus and run!"

Before Harry could obey, he felt his insides sort of twist – Side-Along Apparition, though he didn't like it any better than the last time – and he gasped for breath on the other side of the flames. It was still reaching for him.

He didn't pause to reach back this time. Harry ran.

And kept running. Wind in his hair, the ground under his feet.

If walls didn't exist, then he could run forever.


	13. Chapter 13

He stumbled through the cheers, the cries of Harry, like one in a waking dream.

He was back home at Hogwarts. Where he belonged.

It wasn't home at all, without Ron and Hermione and, Harry realized, even Snape. Ministry officials and representatives had come to visit him. The disappearance of the Boy Who Lived had to set off some alarms, after all.

He didn't remember what he had said to them.

He'd have been talking about his experience right now and trying to make some sense of it with Ron and Hermione, but they were no longer here.

In Voldemort's captivity, Harry had almost forgotten about their deaths, pushed somewhere to where he didn't have to confront reality. He'd thought that he'd been about to die, so it didn't matter that much.

Right now, he hated Hogwarts. He hated the Owlery, the Quidditch pitch, the classrooms… everything.

He'd been hiding in the hospital wing all the time he'd been there, actually.

"Harry, you know that they wouldn't have wanted you to be like this."

"Shut up, Neville."

"I-I mean… you know. Ron and Hermione, they didn't give up their lives to have you-"

He hadn't finished the sentence. Harry's hex had just missed his head by a few inches.

"Harry, you can't stay in there forever."

Remus. So they'd even resorted to finding him to make Harry get up.

"Yes, I can." Maybe if he stayed there long enough, his wounds would heal and he'd be ready to face the world again. Maybe not.

"Go 'way, Professor."

He didn't hear Remus Lupin leave.

Good. Let someone else take care of Voldemort; let someone else be the hero. He just wanted everyone to leave him alone.

"Harry…"

"_Harry_."

"_HARRY!_"

"What?" Then Harry registered his face. "What's happened?"

"It's Dumbledore."

What? But they were at Hogwarts, weren't they? There was no way for Death Eaters to-

"_What happened?_"

"It looks as though Lucius' son killed him and made a run for it." Lupin's face, so grim and devoid of hope.

"Malfoy?" He didn't believe it. Couldn't. There was no way that the boy who'd been his schoolboy rival, the bouncing ferret, could have killed Dumbledore… was there? Unless…

A conversation floated to the top of his mind again. Something that Voldemort had told him about Malfoy and a Vanishing Cabinet and _why hadn't he remembered it until now_?

His scar burned as though his forehead was about to combust in a flash of brilliant fire. He welcomed the feeling for once, because it meant that something was still familiar.

"Where are they?"

"Harry, you can't just get up. We need to guard you; there might be others who are hiding somewhere-"

"Let me go!"

They didn't, but Harry heard that Dumbledore's body had been found at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower.

He didn't get to see him again until the funeral.


End file.
